Snapshot Photographs
by Sam-Tony
Summary: Reid answers the question on what it's like to have a photographic memory.


Snapshot Photographs

I have a photographic memory.

Just what does that mean, exactly? Do I see pictures in my head? Like snapshots of things others would have long since forgotten? Is the smell of lemonade and sunshine enough to trigger a childhood memory perhaps?

Well, I guess...I guess that would depend on which sense triggers a particular snapshot. I know that, while a serial killer's method of operation may change over time, his signature will only do so out of necessity; and that, as a baby, my favorite color was purple, not blue. I can recite poetry by Byron learned in the 7th grade verbatim or tell you the statistics on anything from arsonists to serial killers to the various triggers thought to cause sex offenders.

But no matter which is called forth, be it the large beach ball in primary colors that was a 3rd birthday present or the last victim we pulled from clutches of a murderer just seconds too late…believe me when I say I remember them all. Everything that remains to shape who I am and who I have yet to become.

Sometimes I wonder just who that is.

I have multiple degrees in psychology, theology, history, literature and behavioral analysis. Thanks to my placement with the BAU, I'm learning to 'think outside of the box'. Not to mention daily chess matches with Gideon where I seem to remain an eternal three steps away from Check and yet always within his inevitable Checkmate.

I pull up strange, morbid or obscure thoughts at the drop of a hat. Almost without thinking about it, actually. Elle says I'm weird and Morgan rolls his eyes but Hotch...and Gideon...they will usually either smile or offer each other a commiserative look. Like they would expect nothing less. Not like I'm a geek exactly; more like a 24 year old genius prodigy with too much time on my hands. And too many books at my disposal.

Ok so I wear sweater vests, could stand to gain a few pounds, get a hair cut and I carry a satchel that would look more at home on Indiana Jones, still…I prefer to think of myself as…unique.

They could be right about the book thing. I read at a very advanced speed; about a page every ten seconds. And I retain everything I read; remember every word, every detail in perfect, picture sharp clarity.

And still…what does all of that _mean_, exactly?

You asked me that once. One late night on the plane heading back from Phoenix. Everyone else was asleep and, as usual, we had wound up sitting across from each other in the booth section of the plane playing - what else? - chess. I had a different answer then. I told you about the data retention, the speed reading and the fact that I would never forget the humiliation of my first year in high school. I was 9.

But now...now it means I have a few, much more pleasant things to focus on. Expanded parameters on which to hone my skills and expand my highly advanced intellect. Yes I'm smiling. Because in reading this, I know you're smiling, too.

And still - what does all of this _mean?_ To you, specifically, Jason. You still don't know? Then let me tell you...

It means I'll always remember the way you smell. Whether it's the clean musk of your sweat or the spicy cut of your cologne. Or maybe the fresh, crisp clean of you, just out of the shower, the smell of soap and Head and Shoulders carried out on the steam as you pull back the curtain. The warm, welcoming scent of you when you bury your nose in my hair, your arms around me as we Sleepwalk in a darkness lit only by candles and the haunting strains of dated music.

It means I will never forget the way you taste. The stale department coffee, consumed only as a last resort, flavored secondhand from a desperate, stolen kiss when a case is going nowhere. That tingly peppermint kiss in the morning, sharing the bathroom, two stepping in a space barely big enough for one. That warm, salty sweet good morning kiss pressed against the skin of your neck just under your ear, brushed against your hairline at the temple.

It means I'll always know your touch on my skin, soft in a moment of tender passion or cuddled together on the couch, reading by a single lamplight. Strong and protective, keeping me safe, as far away from harm as you possibly can. And the possessive, knowing hand that knows the best places to linger. And where not to bother. The hands that make me scream and that ones that allow me to cry.

It means I'll never mistake the sound of your voice for another in the dark. Soft or firm, angry or scared - desperate for reassurance or my rock in the midst of a terrible storm. Passion-rough and loving-me-tender, I know your timber and your tone, your cadence and your key.

It means I will always carry the sight of you branded behind my eyes. Your loving smile. The kindly crinkle of your eyes and the way the good humor creates those lovable, loving lines and makes them shine. The worn and weathered face that I turn to numerous times in the day, my unconscious beacon that guides me through the job we must do. Your body, hard and soft in all the right places, more of a match for my soul than all of the perfect 10s to parade this earth.

It means that I will always know you, Jason Gideon. The mate of my mind, the companion of my soul, the love of my heart.

_That _is what having a photographic memory means to me. Because it's what you mean to me.

end


End file.
